


i’ll scream, but you won’t hear - ‘forget me not’

by CassandrasDreamworld



Series: i am forgotten (i am remade) [3]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: (not graphic and nothing happens except the Initial part), Angst, Anxiety, Anxiety Attacks, Attempted Sexual Assault, Dissociation, Hallucinations, Heavy Angst, I will tag as I go along, If you think a tag is missing PLEASE do tell me, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, Loss of Identity, Mental Health Issues, Nightmares, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, References to Depression, Temporary Character Death, This Fic WILL deal with some mental health issues, traumatic memories
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-15
Updated: 2020-10-06
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:47:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 10,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25917589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CassandrasDreamworld/pseuds/CassandrasDreamworld
Summary: Everything seems far away as if through a haze.It should bother him, he thinks, but it doesn’t.He straps his lute on his back and takes his pack, his mind filled with sorrow and misery.
Relationships: Borch Three Jackdaws | Villentretenmerth & Jaskier | Dandelion, Borch Three Jackdaws | Villentretenmerth & Saskia (The Witcher), Jaskier | Dandelion & Saskia (The Witcher)
Series: i am forgotten (i am remade) [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1613920
Comments: 113
Kudos: 79





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey again! I am pleased that this update took way less time than every other one!
> 
> As i mentioned in the tags this fic WILL deal with mental health shit, so please be prepared for that.
> 
> I haven't tagged everything I've vaguely planned bc often my writing takes me into a completely other direction than i thought so.
> 
> There is something though that I do have planned and won't be tagging for because I want it to be a surprise, i will warn in the authors notes of the chapter when this happens and put eventuell triggers into the end notes.
> 
> so everything said, hope you like it!

It’s been a month.

A long and grueling month. 

He is tired. So so tired.

It’s been a month but it has felt like an _age_.

Like he’s aged fifty years in five minutes. But of course he doesn’t look it.

Does not even look the forty years he is supposed to be.

He’s been travelling from town to town, with near no breathing in between.

Trying to get as far away as possible from- 

The fight, the blood, the clearing, and Geralt _dying_ -

He stops, biting on his fist to muffle a sob, glad that there is not a soul on the road with him.

The pictures keep on coming, repeat over and over and over again, and _again_.

He thinks about what he could have done differently, maybe he could have helped.

Could have helped, could have done _anything_ , if he hadn’t been such a fucking _coward_ -

Geralt bleeding out, bleeding over his hands, hole in his stomach lodges itself inside of his mind, as if _mocking_ him.

Reminding him of his failures.

He can’t, he can’t, he _can’t_.

Memory-Geralt spits out blood, his teeth are red red red and his face _twists_ and he growls _your fault, coward-_

With a dull thump he lets both pack and lute case fall from his grasp and scrambles to the roadside, vomiting up all of his meager breakfast.

Heaving still when there is nothing in his stomach anymore.

With trembling legs he drags himself away from the spot and leans against a tree.

He slowly slides down, shaking, shivering.

Using his sleeve he tries to wipe away his tears and snot, uncaring of the wet and dirty patch it’s leaving.

He doesn’t really care about a lot of things anymore.

Empty eyes are staring at nothing while his mind is an endless repeat of blood and loss and _your fault your fault your fault_.

His breath hitches and he has to try and stop himself from crying again.

It’s no use though.

But his mind is _full full full_ and nothing quiets it, and he finds himself barely stifling a sob. 

He can’t stop trembling and he feels so _weak_ , so pathetic for not even being able to deal with the situation.

He is alive and his love is alive, he might have lost his… identity, and the life he _built_ , but that’s nothing-

_Nothing_ in comparison for the price of Geralt’s life.

Slowly he stops trembling, his tears subside and he leans back against the tree.

Let’s the autumn breeze cool his tear streaked and puffed up face.

His mind still can’t let go of the bloody images. 

Geralt snarling and _hating_ , even if he knows it’s not true and never happened this way.

Slowly he stands up on his still shaky legs.

He dusts his pants off and takes a few calming breaths, walking over to his pack and lute case he dropped in haste.

The lute is unharmed luckily, as are the contents in his pack.

Fishing for a handkerchief he uses his waterskin to damp it, cleaning his face.

Somewhat faintly he notices that his hands are still shaking.

Everything seems far away as if through a haze.

It should bother him, he thinks, but it doesn’t.

He straps his lute on his back and takes his pack, his mind filled with sorrow and misery.

There is a thought, albeit faintly.

Jaskier might have died.

Erased from existence.

But _he_ is still alive, even with pieces missing and pieces lost.

He has to find himself again.

  
  


~

  
  


Arriving at the next town on his path is… odd.

The haze that has claimed him after his fit hasn’t yet completely left.

He knows this town, has visited often and played often for the town folks.

As with the first innkeep after the incident, and everyone else _after_ , who _he_ knows, no one remembers him. 

And as with all the others he feels a pang of sadness, and his heart _hurts_.

There are no greetings yelled his way out of open windows or tiny gardens.

No children running up to him, swarming him and asking if he could sing for them.

He tries to pretend that this is just like how it is, when he normally arrives at a new town.

Where nobody knows him.

Where he knows nobody.

But it doesn’t work, his mind conjuring up more and more memories of the place and of the people.

His memories here with _Geralt_ -

He swallows around a lump in his throat, the facade of hazy calm that gripped him cracks slightly.

Shaking his head he continues his way to the inn, hoping he can sing for his supper, maybe his room too if he’s lucky.

He arrives and pauses before entering, listens to the sounds of many voices talking and laughing.

He feels so alone.

Stealing himself he enters, fake smile on his face, few look up to see who it is before going back to what they were doing.

He wanders over to the bar, leaning on it and waiting for the maid to come over to him.

She does eventually and he asks her after the owner.

Her eyes flit to the lute and she nods, seems excited even and sccuries away. 

Not long after she comes back with the owner, a woman easily one head taller than himself.

She inspects him with a raised eyebrow, “You a bard, lad?” 

He is probably older than her by a good ten years, he does not tell her this.

“Of course my lady! I am indeed a bard and I would very much love to play in your lovely establishment.” 

He smiles charmingly at her or at least, he hopes he does.

He feels so broken.

Fortunately it seems that his mask holds up, she doesn’t question him more and they can negotiate the terms for his singing. 

Before he leaves to prepare himself for his performance she stops him.

“What’s ya name lad?”

Ah.

He swallows and looks to the side.

He had a lot of time to think on the road, he can’t bear to carry his name anymore.

It’s painful and like salting an open wound.

He settled for a name now though, a good name he thinks. Poetic.

Nonetheless it tastes like ash in his mouth in silent mockery. 

“You may call me Hyacinth, my lady.” He gives a small bow, his grin not reaching his eyes.

She snorts and gives a short bark of laughter. “Like the flower?”

No.

“Yes.”

She gives another laugh and rolls her eyes, saying something about kids these days as she goes back to what she was doing.

Hyacinth lets his fake smile fall and leaves for the room she gave him.

He has to prepare himself for the performance.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> !!! I cannot believe i am updating so fast!!! somehow it's been really fucking good writing wise woop woop!!
> 
> okay so now the warning i put in the first chapter applies a. i added some new tags and b. the not tagged things happens
> 
> i promise you the thing that happens gets better but if you really want or need to know look into the end notes!

The moment the door falls close behind him,  _ Jas- _ Hyacinth lets himself plop down on the bed.

His bag rustles as he lets it fall to the ground next to his feat, his lute still heavy on his back.

He puts his head in his hands and takes a few deep breaths to ground himself.

Over the course of the conversation the hazy calm had started to diffuse, leaving him shaky and hurt.

And- He  _ hurts so much _ .

Everything feels like so much, too much, and  _ not enough _ . 

A desperate and broken sound worms itself out of his throat before he can swallow it.

He muffles a sob into his hands, his body starting to shake as he cries silently.

Shakes and shakes and shakes and tries to stop it but he  _ can’t _ .

At last another low sound of pain escapes him and he folds in on himself, legs drawn up to his chest.

Face buried into them and arms wrapped around them.

With a sort of bemused resignation he thinks that now he probably looks as pathetic as he feels.

Some time passes and gradually his sobs turn into hiccuping peals of laughter.

There is no joy in it though, the sound broken and hollow.

Broken and hollow and  _ manic _ . 

He wheezes and cries and laughs and doesn’t stop, can’t stop.

Everything seems so far away, the room starts spinning and he  _ can’t breathe _ .

The world blurs around him, going hazy, spinning around him.

A short hysterical laugh bubbles out of him, leaving him wheezing.

He tries to gulp down air but it doesn’t seem to  _ work _ .

Every breath  _ burns _ .

More tears spill over as he tries to get his breathing under control.

His hands grip his arms hard, digging painfully into the flesh below, nearly tearing his doublet.

The pain at least grounds him, gives him something to focus on that’s  _ real _ .

Few things now, feel like they are.

He feels like he’s living in one long nightmare he can’t wake up from.

It takes a long time for him to calm down again.

After, he is exhausted and tired, his fit sapping every bit of energy out of him.

Faintly he thinks about his performance in the evening, glad it’s still only early afternoon.

He fumbles around with the lute strap, trying to open it but his hands are still too unsteady.

After a while he gives up and just slides it over his head.

Setting it down carefully next to his feet.

He feels dizzy, unbalanced.

The world seems so far away, his body going through the motions, he himself just a passenger watching on.

Hyacinth lets himself fall backwards onto the bed, making the mattress creak under his weight.

For a while he just looks at the ceiling.

Counts the boards and listens to the sounds of the tavern below.

After a while his eyelids start to grow heavy, his eyes burn and it’s a chore trying to keep them open.

Surely he can rest a bit before having to force himself to perform.

His eyes close without his input, the sounds from below fading into nothingness.

He doesn’t even bother to change his positions as he falls into a fitful and restless sleep.

  
  


~

  
  


His dreams were plagued by blood and gore.

By Things that had happened and ones that have not and some that did but  _ not like this _ .

Walking along the coast, laughing- a scream-  _ claws _ through his  _ stomach _ -

Gurgling, coughing, white hair running _ red red red _ \- a monster emerging from the sea, so gigantic it  _ darkens the sky _ -

A deal-

He sees it’s teeth glinting, mouth-maw twisted in a cruel smile-

The monster jumps forwards and  _ devours _ everything-

Sharps teeth close around his head and he  _ screams _ -

_ And- _

He wakes up.

Wakes up and startles upright in a flair of panic.

The sudden jolt from dreaming to not-dreaming leaves his head spinning.

His breath comes out in a labored wheeze, his heart beating a fast  _ bumbumbumbum _ . 

It feels as if it's trying to jump right out of his ribcage.

He lets himself fall back, one arm thrown over his eyes, and tries to get his breathing under control.

After a few minutes he sighs and slowly sits up again.

Rubbing his eyes he looks out of the tiny window glad to see he hasn’t slept long.

He sighs and stands up, noticing how his chemise is sweat soaked and all but plastered to his body.

Slowly he walks over to the wash basin, stripping away his chemise and doublet, tossing them haphazardly to the side.

The water is ice cold but somehow it doesn’t bother him as he cleans himself up as much as possible.

After that he takes a clean chemise from his bag, putting it on slowly, his thoughts drifting far away.

It feels once again as if he’s a passenger, watching his body moving and doing things without his input.

His motions to get ready are stilted and clunky, mechanical even.

It feels like it only takes seconds before he blinks, hand already at the door knob, going down into the tavern.

Like before it’s like he watches his body go through the motions. 

He winks and flirts and flits around from table to table.

But he doesn’t.

Everything feels so far away. 

Even when he goes onto the metaphorical stage to play he is  _ there _ , but not.

No one seems to notice.

The coins flow plenty and the owner seems happy, giving him a nod.

It feels like no time at all has passed when he finishes his set, late into the night.

Objectively he knows that he’s been performing for several hours.

Subjectively it feels like he’s only been playing for minutes, at most.

Most of the patrons have left already, or went to sleep in their rooms

The owner is closing up.

She gives another nod at him, whistling a little tune under her breath.

Distantly he recognizes it as something he played today.

He nods back, and makes his way upstairs.

In the room he leans his lute against the wall next to the bed, stowing away the pouch with coins inside of his bag.

He still feels out of sorts, but he is slowly… coming back, making him antsy.

His skin feels like it’s crawling and shifting, stretching thin, and he is restless.

Walking up and down the room doesn’t help, it just makes him fidget harder, finding no outlet for his pent up energy.

It’s frustrating.

The longer this goes on the more anxious he gets.

His breaking point comes soon after.

In a fit of desperation he opens the window and looks down.

He finds that he has the inn’s canopy right under his window and thanks the lucky stars.

Slowly and quietly he squeezed himself through the window to silently land on the wood below.

He wryly thinks that he’s lucky to have experience with leaving out of windows.

Slowly he inches his way forward, feeling for the edge and carefully lowers himself down.

At the bottom he stops and listens, but it seems he went unheard.

He lets out a breath he didn’t notice he was holding.

Quietly he steps away from the inn into the cool night.

He does not dare to go away too far from the inn, staying close but wandering around the back of it.

Alone with his thoughts and no one around he feels himself slipping away again.

It’s the opposite of what he wanted to accomplish but he is too tired to care.

At least the buzzing under his skin has subsided.

He wants rest.

Slowly and without it registering to him, the sounds of the night and the world fade out around him.

Everything is quiet.

As such he doesn’t hear the faint sounds of a fight, the slamming of a door, a drunkard screaming obscenities.

Doesn’t hear the drunken shuffling and stumbling, the cursing coming closer.

He startles out his daze when he’s suddenly grabbed and pressed against the wall.

It takes him too long to assess the situation, his mind still dazed. 

When he does take stock of his situation it’s already far too late, a hand laid itself over his mouth and he can’t even scream.

“Whaz a pr’ty thing like you doin’ out here all alone, hm?” the man slurs.

Hyacinth starts to struggle hard against the grip the man has on him, manages to headbutt him.

The man curses and tries to grab him harder but doesn’t manage a good grip.

It’s enough time for him to draw his knife hidden in his boot and awkwardly swipe at the man.

The ensuing skirmish leaves both of them with bruises and scrapes and out of breath.

In a moment of carelessness the drunkard manages to grab ahold of his knife.

Hyacinth curses and tries to get it back but to no avail and in a moment of carelessness his grip on the other man’s arm slips-

The knife slides into  _ him _ -

It feels like everything comes to a screeching halt.

The man lets the knife go, embedded deep into his stomach.

Stumbling back Hyacinth grabs the blade’s hilt with shaking hands, eyes wide.

Cursing the man steps back, turning tail and fleeing into the night.

Left alone, he falls to the ground, hand still on the hilt.

Without thinking he pulls it out.

Only after he realizes what a bad idea that was, feels his blood spill out over his hands, seeping into the ground.

That’s bad isn’t it.

Everything is going dark so fast.

Faintly he _knows_ that he is dying.

Dying fast at that.

He hopes they will remember him with his death.

That he can see them again in a long long  _ long _ time when it’s their time to go as well.

Before his eyes he sees them one last time, they’re smiling at him.

He smiles back, he loves and misses them  _ so much _ .

Everything goes dark.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


.

.

.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


He takes a breath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ayyy them end notes
> 
> Not warned for in the tags:  
> Temporary Character Death - in this case for Jaskier, aka he dead but he gets better again, i swear xD  
> the Sexual Assault - also happens to Jaskier but nothing comes from it


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His hands are still _red_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Folks. I have no idea what's going on honestly. I don't know how I managed to write this chapter so fast.
> 
> I am fucking MINDBLOWS
> 
> anyway, i really hope you like it!! <3

Red.

Everything is red.

Frantically, Hyacinth tries to wash the blood off of his hands, his clothes, his body.

There’s so much _blood_.

The coppery scent is penetrating his nose and making his eyes water.

He can’t think, can’t stop, _he has to get the blood off_ -

The wash basin runs red red red-

He hardly sees anything through his tears.

Struggles and gasps for breath.

This has to be a nightmare-

_Has to be_.

No one just stands up after they’d-

They-

_Died._

He sobs, but doesn’t stop scrubbing.

He can’t have died.

Can’t have, can’t have, can’t have.

With a wet sound the ruined chemise lands in the corner.

A wounded sound escapes him and he sinks to his knees.

His hands are still _red_.

He shakes and the tears flow freely down his face

His hands are balled into fists, his nails digging sharply into his palm.

It doesn’t seem real.

He _died._

He died and _should be dead_.

No human wakes up after they die.

Is he a monster now?

The thought makes him sick, bile rising in his throat.

Swallowing, he forces it back.

Slowly and with a trembling hand he brushed over the area where the knife got him.

There’s nothing there anymore.

No wound, no pain, nothing but a thin scar.

A tremor runs through him and brings a fresh flood of tears.

He’s tired, and aching, feels flayed open.

In his thoughts he sees it happening again and again and again.

He can’t do more than sit on the dusty floor and cry silently.

Everything proving as too much.

Hyacinth cries for a long time before seemingly running out of tears.

After, he stands on shaking and trembling legs.

Takes stock of his surroundings.

Slowly, he grabs for the ruined garb and takes up the cleaning again.

He has to focus on something.

With a silent apology he takes the bedsheet and cleans the last traces of the blood off of himself.

He still feels like he is covered with it.

_Focus_.

He mops up any blood he finds by candlelight, his eyes falling on the knife.

Why he took it with him he doesn’t know.

Or rather, he _does_ know and it makes a lump form in his throat, his mouth going dry.

It is- was a gift.

Geralt gifted him the knife that killed him.

Slowly he takes it and looks at it, it’s just a knife.

He can’t get rid of it, even if he knows how it feels when it slides into flesh.

But he also remembers the day when Geralt gifted it to him, his warm and seldom seen smile, their shared kiss.

At the memory he has to blink away some tears again.

He cleans the knife, puts it back into his boot.

His eyes flit around the room, except for the chemise everything seems as cleaned up as it gets.

Taking it he bundles it up into the bloodied bed sheet and hopes that he will be able to dispose of it quietly.

With some difficulty he heaves the wash basin up and over to the window, where he empties it out.

The blood in the water should have been diluted enough to not leave any stains.

Doubts anyone would be even able to smell it in the morning.

Hyacinth takes a deep breath and arranges everything close together, to be able to grab his things fast.

He pulls an old linen shirt out of his bag and throws it on before climbing on the bed.

Leaves his boots on, in case of an emergency.

Scooting against the headboard and leaning against it, he closes his eyes.

His mind is quiet.

There is nothing, no thoughts, no images.

He feels hollow.

Sighing he draws his legs up, lets his head fall forward.

It’s not long until sunrise and he knows that he has to leave early, he can’t stay here.

Here where he… died.

He doesn't think that it would be a good idea to sleep even if he could.

Taking the blanket, Hyacinth wraps it around himself and burrows deeper into it and closes his eyes.

Except for periodically looking out of the window, he stays like this until the world slowly but surely brightens.

He’s tired and everything screams at him to sleep but he forces himself to climb out of the bed.

The rest has to have been enough.

His body protests after having been in the same positions, his muscles hurt and his back pops when he stretches.

He blinks and rubs his eyes, stretches again to try and shake the fatigue off.

Looking out of the window he thinks, he should have some time still before the first people start their day.

Slowly he drops and starts stretching, only going through a shortened version of his usual routine.

When he is done he already feels better, a little bit less shaky on his legs.

Judging it to be the appropriate time he gets his songbook out, tears out a page.

Taking a quill he writes a short message for the owner and then tucks it into his bag.

Or wants to.

He pauses with the note halfway to the bag.

Now with the light of the sun steadily creeping up he sees the bloodstains on his pants.

Swallowing he puts the note away, he has to deal with this later.

It shouldn’t surprise him that his pants got stained too, but he didn’t see it in the low light against the dark fabric.

His hands are trembling.

He takes a deep breath, trying to calm himself down again.

Breathes in. Breathes out. _Breathes in-_

Breathes out.

There are other, more important things he needs to do now.

He will have to worry about this later.

Later, when he is _out of this town_.

Deep breaths.

One step at a time.

He takes his doublet, puts it on, it’s still slightly wet but it has to do.

Lute on his back, bag at his side.

Dagger- 

Dagger in his boot. 

Breathe in- and. Breathe out-

He takes the bloody bed sheet and looks around one last time

Makes sure he has everything and then leaves quietly.

Walking slowly he keeps to the sides of the floor in hope to avoid the creaking floorboards.

The same thing with the stairs.

He beelines for the bar, and sees that the backroom door is open.

Slipping inside, he looks around and sees that no one is there.

Breathes in. Breathes out.

He leaves the note he wrote as well as some of his earned coin for the replacement of the bed sheet.

With that he leaves the inn and steps outside.

The air is crisp and clear and no one is out yet, the sun just barely brightening the world.

He takes a breath and starts walking.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s another one of those nights.
> 
> Or rather, a series of them.
> 
> He’s tired and cold, his thoughts drifting while the days are blurring together.
> 
> There is just roads and forests and roads, everything looking the same as he struggles to find another settlement.
> 
> After the Incident, he just started walking out of town without thinking where to, his mind far away.
> 
> By the time he could think clearly again, he didn’t know where he was anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> y'all. what a chapter. it's 2am and i wrote nearly the whole thing now
> 
> it's not beta'd cause i wanted to upload it so if you find some grammar stuff or inconsistencies pls tell me
> 
> uh some warning for this chapter here comes the graphic violence to play

Hyacinth tries to not think about what happened in the town.

Sometimes, late at night he brushes his hand against the scar on his abdomen.

He thinks about bleeding out one the ground.

Everything going dark, him being  _ so cold _ .

It’s rare that he sleeps on those nights.

He tosses and turns, stands up and walks around, lays down again, and repeats.

Sleep doesn’t come easy at all anymore, if he is being honest with himself.

Is this how Geralt felt all of those years ago?

He can’t concentrate, every waking moment haunted by ghosts-not-ghosts.

More often than not it’s as if Geralt is still at his side, although it’s but a cruel mockery of him.

Memory-Geralt giving him snide comments and laughing when he stumbles.

His only grip on sanity his knowledge that _his_ not his, not anymore Geralt wouldn’t ever be as deliberately cruel as his own mind.

He falters in his step, would he really? 

No, says his mind- Yes, says his heart.

Shaking his head and taking a deep breath, he continues walking.

The incident happened weeks ago.

If he closes his eyes and drifts, he can sometimes pretend that it was just a bad dream.

Then he remembers the pain, the blood, the scare and every possibility of it being a dream flees his mind.

It’s another one of  _ those _ nights.

Or rather, a series of them.

He’s tired and cold, his thoughts drifting while the days are blurring together.

There is just roads and forests and roads, everything looking the same as he struggles to find another settlement.

After the Incident, he just started walking out of town without thinking where to, his mind far away.

By the time he could think clearly again, he didn’t know where he was anymore.

The area he was in, holding no recognition.

No road markers at which he could have oriented himself.

He doesn’t know if he has walked in a circle or his mind is playing tricks on him he’s been walking  _ for so long _ .

His clothes are dirty and his stomach empty, not having had the mind to buy warmer clothes or rations for the road.

Surviving on the occasional animal he manages to hunt, as well as berries and fruits from trees.

It doesn’t fill him though.

He has to ration many of those edibles since he doesn’t know when he will be able to find something next.

As such, Hyacinth isn’t really aware of his surroundings.

The only thing important to him currently, setting one foot before the other, trying to arrive  _ somewhere _ .

Doesn’t notice the rustling in the brushes, the frankly embarrassingly loud footsteps.

Only notices, when an arrow buries itself deep into his shoulder.

He screams in shock and in pain, grabbing his shoulder, the arrow-

Holding it, blood spilling out over his hands-

_ Again- _

His breath comes in short bursts and he can’t  _ think _ .

The person who shot the arrow jumps out of the bushes, kicks him in the side.

Another pained scream escapes him, he fall to the side-

He can’t breathe-

The person, man, bandit is on him and Hyacinth tries to throw him off but it’s a weak struggle.

He doesn’t have the strength left for it.

The bandit grabs the arrow and drives it in deeper, making Hyacinth scream in agony.

He tries to grab the bandit, claws at his arms but the man is holding onto the arrow still and  _ yanks it free _ .

Hyacinth let’s out another wail, full of  _ pain _ and then-

The bandit rams it into his throat-

Into his  _ body _ -

Again and again and again.

He gurgles, blood spilling from his mouth, choking him.

Drowning him-

Everything hurts, his body screaming in agony-

Dimly he feels how everything seems to grow cold and numb.

He’s so, so cold.

It goes dark.

  
  


~

  
  


He comes to again.

It isn’t as much of a surprise as it should be, this time around.

He- His body has been dragged between the trees.

The bandit roots around in his bag, the lute leans against a tree.

Out of the corner of his eyes, he sees a horse grazing not far off.

Like the bandit’s.

The man’s back is turned and he’s in reaching distance, his attention though is solely on the bag.

He curses.

Hyacinth doesn’t own a lot.

Slowly and quietly he sits up, he makes for the dagger in his boot.

Pauses.

The arrow is on the ground next to him.

He reaches out, curls his fingers around the shaft.

It would certainly be some kind of poetic justice, would it not?

His clothes rustle when he shifts to his knees.

Startled the bandit turns around and before he can do anything-

Hyacinth rammed the arrow into his throat.

He doesn’t let go, going with the man when he sinks to the ground.

In a sort of detached manner he watches the man.

Choking as he has choked.

Blood spilling from his lips like it did from his.

The man dies and Hyacinth can only stare.

He feels-

Hollow.

Shakily he stands up and sways from side to side.

He only manages a few steps away before having to hold onto a tree.

Leaning against it, he tries to breath evenly.

This is far from the first time he has killed someone.

Traveling with a Witcher isn’t exactly safe.

It doesn’t make it easier though.

He doubles downs and upends his stomach contents.

After, he stumbles back, and sits down hard.

Two times he has died now, two times he came back.

He doesn’t know why, or  _ how _ .

Doesn’t know why  _ him _ .

He just wants to rest.

  
  


~

  
  


He continues on, after.

Takes his things, as well as the bandit’s, there is no sense in wasting resources after all.

Hyacinth also takes the man’s horse, being alone out here would have surely been a death sentence for her.

He doesn’t know what the bandit called her, so he names her Thistle.

Together they leave.

It’s nice, having a companion on the road again.

With time she grows on him, Thistle is smart and crafty for a horse.

Also a bit feisty.

Their surroundings change after a while.

Dense forests giving way to grasslands and hills.

Those giving way to rocky ground and occasional lone trees.

He was near the coast.

Excited he spurs Thistle into a trot.

After a while, he sees the first signs of civilization.

Houses in the distance and beyond them, the  _ sea _ .

Thistle seems infected by his enthusiasm, prancing and pushing forward.

He laughs and heeds her call.

  
  


~

  
  


Arriving at the little town has been amazing, after such a long time in the wilds.

Everything was fine at first as well but, the longer he stays, the more anxious he gets.

There is no logical reason for this.

The people are nice and friendly, wave to him and say hello.

But everything is  _ too much _ .

The noise, the smell, the people.

Too much, too much, too much-

He’s in the middle of the town square, Thistle starting to get nervous as well.

Snorting at people coming to close, ears going in every which way, the white of her eyes showing.

He has to get out of here.

_ Fast. _

It’s too much.

He brushes against so many people, and he has to repress his flinching.

Out, out, out.

Suddenly there is a hand on his shoulder, someone speaking.

He tenses, breathing gets harder and harder, Thistle pulling on the bridle.

The person is still there but the hand disappears.

Breathe in and, breathe out-

He turns around and-

Freezes-

That’s-

That can’t be-

How is _he_ _here?_

Why.

He wants to ask, but-

The other’s eyes are concerned and the man says-

  
  
  
“ _ Jaskier? _ ”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He startles quite badly when the door suddenly opens, a little girl poking her head in.
> 
> “You’re awake!” She exclaims excitedly, bouncing up to him.
> 
> She can’t be more than three or four years old, her huge blue eyes peering up at him.
> 
> He really doesn’t know what to do, it has to be said.
> 
> Awkwardly he clears his throat before trying to speak. “... Hi?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> y'all. i CANNOT believe my update speed omfg
> 
> i'm just ??? writing so much??? holy fuck
> 
> thank you all for reading and honestly your comments give me LIFE

That’s not-

That’s not his name anymore-

_He can’t remember, how does he remember_ -

His heart beats so fast, it feels as if it wants to escape his rib cage.

Breathing is heard, thinking harder.

Hyacinth swallows, when he finds his voice it’s feeble and hoarse.

“... Borch?”

Borch- no, the man, stranger takes a step closer and Hyacinth whimpers.

He stumbles back, into Thistle who throws her head back in displeasure.

Shaking he tries to back away more, everything is so much, so loud.

He feels like he’s drowning and suffocating, he just wants to get _out of here_.

Faintly he hears Bo- the man trying to calm him down, crouching next to him.

Crouching? 

Oh, he hasn’t noticed that he has sunk to the ground.

Everything is bright, his head is ringing.

He coughs and chokes, something squeezing his throat tight and not letting him _breathe_.

Fruitlessly he tries to gasp for air but it feels like nothing reaches his lungs.

The world goes fuzzy around him, blurring together in _light-noise-smell_.

He can’t breathe, he tries and tries but nothing-

Dimly, he’s aware that he is crying-

The noise of the world fades out just to get replaced by the blood rushing in his ears-

His chest _hurts_.

Hands grab him and everything goes dark.

  
  


~

  
  


Slowly he wakes up again.

He doesn’t know where he is, an unfamiliar ceiling greeting him.

The bedding is soft.

Too soft for an inn, certainly.

How did ge get here?

Who brought him here?

His memory is hazy, he remembers going into the village, then-

Everything getting to be _too much_ -

The people, the noises, the smells.

Then only one big blur.

Someone was there, someone he knows. 

Knew?

His mind is trying to fill in the blanks but he only has flashes of emotions.

The panic, the fear, the pain.

Carefully he sits up, looks around.

He’s in a big and clean room, his bag and lute are in one corner next to a table, his shoes at the end of the bed.

There is a big window letting in light and based on the position of the sun he either wasn’t out for long _or_ it’s the next day.

Considering his luck these past months it’s probably the latter.

His mind whirls with thoughts, as he tries his damned hardest to remember but nothing comes forth.

Lost in thought as he is, he doesn’t notice the knock at his door.

He startles quite badly when the door suddenly opens, a little girl poking her head in.

“You’re awake!” She exclaims excitedly, bouncing up to him.

She can’t be more than three or four years old, her huge blue eyes peering up at him.

He really doesn’t know what to do, it has to be said.

Awkwardly he clears his throat before trying to speak. “... Hi?”

It was intended as a statement but he couldn’t keep the questioning tone to himself.

He tries for a smile. “Who might the lady be that has graced little old me?”

It has the effect he intends which is that she starts to giggle. “You talk funny!”

Hyacinth gasps in mock offences and she giggles even harder.

Still snickering she holds her hand out, puffing up when he takes it.

“I’m Saskia!” She shakes his hand very seriously, or at least, tries to.

Her laughter making her shake slightly when she tries to suppress it, the mirth in her eyes is apparent.

Then- 

“Who’re you?” She inquires with a curious tilt to her head.

“I’m- well, you may call me Hyacinth.” 

Saskia gasps, “Like the flower!”

He chuckles slightly, his grin lopsided. “Sure. Like the flower.”

To his surprise she clambers up the side of the bed next to him.

She jumps up and lets herself flop onto her backside and laughs loudly.

Her bubbly and happy attitude infects Hyacinth as well, making him grin and laugh a little.

He can’t remember the last time he smiled without it being a fake.

With amusement he watches as Saskia helps herself to a pillow and proceeds to fluff it up until it’s apparently to her liking.

She curls around it, head propped up on the pillow and looking expectantly at Hyacinth.

“My papa says you’re music.”

A beat.

He blinks bewildered and then laughs, “I can make music, certainly, but I am not made of music.”

She rolls her eyes and pouts, “You make music, so you _are_ music!”

Her tone of voice implies that that should be obvious.

Hyacinth thinks about trying to correct her but then thinks better of it.

Children are lovely but their thought process is one he will never understand.

“Do you.. want to hear a song?” He asks tentatively, just to make sure.

At that she nods so hard, her hair falls into her face. “Yes!”

Chuckling he stands up and retrieves his lute before sitting down more comfortably on the bed.

Saskia’s request and her infectious happiness makes Hyacinth forget what he was thinking about, and why he’s been worried.

As well as that he probably _should_ ask who her ‘Papa’ is.

But for now he starts to strum a few chords on his lute to warm up and then begins his song.

The song is earnest, if a little wistful and the tune cheery.

He puts his heart into the lyrics, tries not to think for whom he has written those.

Hyacinth and Saskia both are so absorbed into the song, they don’t notice the door opening.

Saskia claps and jumps up when Hyacinth is finished. “Again! Again!”

He gives her a small bow, “Of course, as the lady wishes.”

She giggles and flops down again.

Hyacinth is just about to start the song for a second time but before he can, there comes a slow clapping sound from the doorway.

He startles badly, the lute making a discordant twang as his hand lands on the strings.

“Papa!” Saskia exclaims and scrambles down from the bed, running at her father.

Hyacinth turns around and-

He didn’t imagine it, it seems.

In the doorway stands Borch, now holding little Saskia while she already starts to talk his ear off.

His body refused to move, his memories of what has happened rushing back, making him inhale sharply.

Borch looks at him and inclines his head, then he whispers something to Saskia who pouts.

She wriggles out of the hold of Borch and yells, “Bye music flower man!”

With that she’s already zipped out of the room.

Hyacinth’s whole body is tense as he tracks Borch’s movements with his eyes.

To his credit, Borch doesn’t give any indication of being watched.

He closes the door and then moves to the table in the corner, sitting down in one of the chairs.

They look at each other for some time, Hyacinth warily while Borch seems to wait for something.

Seeing as nothing is coming from the bard, Borch sighs. “Jaskier…”

And at that, Hyacinth _flinches_.

Hard.

His grip on his lute is white knuckled and he is shaking.

“C- call me Hyacinth. Please. I can’t bear it.” He says but without looking into Borch’s eyes.

Something like sympathy flits across the other man’s face and he nods. 

“Alright.”

Hyacinth takes a shaky breath, he puts his lute to the side and looks up.

His mouth opens and closes but he can’t seem to find it in him to ask.

Borch seems to know what he wants to ask. “You want to ask how I remember you.”

A statement.

Hyacinth nods.

With another sigh, Borch leans back against the chair, arms crossed over his chest.

“It’s because of the one whose magic is surrounding you.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He’s knocked sideways by the entire situation and he doesn’t know how to deal with it.
> 
> Some part of him thinks this is a dream, that he’ll wake up, be alone again.
> 
> Another, desperately grasps at the strands of hope forming in his chest.
> 
> Because if Borch remembers, is there a chance others can as well?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I .... don't know what my update speed is. It's sorcery. What the fuck.
> 
> I am.... floored.
> 
> Chapter is not beta read if there are any mistakes I'll come back and fic em later!

“The… magic surrounding me?”

Hyacinth’s voice is shaking, he doesn’t know what to _think_.

It feels unreal, that Borch is here, that he _remembers_ when nobody else does.

His head is filled with too many thoughts, his emotions a big whirlwind.

He’s knocked sideways by the entire situation and he doesn’t know how to deal with it.

Some part of him thinks this is a dream, that he’ll wake up, be alone again.

Another, desperately grasps at the strands of hope forming in his chest.

Because if Borch remembers, is there a chance others can as well?

But before he can follow that thread of thought he shoves it down again.

It will just hurt more if that isn’t the case, so he dares not to imagine it.

Borch waits for him to focus again, it’s as if he sees right through him and his inner conflict.

He probably does.

With a shake of his head he tries to get a clear head again.

Hyacinth looks at Borch then and inclines his head to indicate he is ready to hear the answer now.

Or as ready as he will be anyhow.

With a last look Borch makes sure that Hyacinth is there again.

He sighs his voice low and comforting, “Magic or rather chaos, is swirling around you, surrounding you and in you, anyone attuned could sense it.”

Hyacinth swallows, he’s not sure what to say to that, he knows that he isn’t magic.

Has no connection to chaos, not even a little.

As if reading his mind Borch continues, “It’s source is not you, but it has been bound to you.”

“Who…?” Hyacinth croaks out, his voice shaking.

“Who is the one responsible?” Borch sighs at his nod, “I do not know, I can only tell you _what_ that being is, not who they are.”

Getting no reaction from the bard he stands up, goes over to Hyacinth and sits down beside him.

“You are Fae-Touched, Hyacinth.”

“Fae… Touched?” He looks confused, his brow furrowing. “What are Fae?”

Borch inclines his head. 

“The Fae are an old old folk, full of extremely powerful and skilled beings. They are chaos, both in the literal and metaphorical sense.”

“There are two courts. The Seelie and Unseelie court, Seelie Fae are as dangerous as the Unseelie ones but more beneficially inclined, whereas the Unseelie Fae are most often malicious in nature.”

“Fae are eccentric beings, most of the Fae Folk will keep to themselves but there are enough Fae who want to get out of the Fae Wild- their home.”

“These Fae can range from helpful to nuisances and malevolent- just like humans in that regard. Many Fae are guardians over nature, protectors and keepers, they are very in tune with nature as a whole.”

“There are a few things that work against them- iron, salt, rowan and St John's wort and red verbena just a few plants that guard. Never tell them your true name and always be polite.”

A pause.

“They are attracted and drawn to pretty things, music, sweet words.”

Hyacinth sobs.

Borch reaches out a hand, carefully and slowly, when Hyacinth doesn’t make to move away, he lightly touches his wrist.

“I am sorry for what has happened to you, it’s not fair and not right.”

At this Hyacinth collapses into himself and starts to cry outright.

Hands are gripping him and then he gets pulled into a tight and comforting hug.

He sobs into Borch’s shoulder, his exhaustion is bone deep- he can't even be embarrassed about it.

It feels like he cries for ages before he runs out of tears, his voice gone hoarse.

Hyacinth doesn’t stop shaking, hands gripping Borch’s jacket like a lifeline.

If that seems to bother the man, he doesn’t show it, just strokes over Hyacinth’s back in a soothing gesture.

After a while Hyacinth stops shaking, seems unresponsive altogether.

Borch gently pries his hands away from his own clothes and lays Hyacinth down onto the bed.

The latter just blinks, drained beyond believe.

He looks so very young now, nothing to do with whatever magic has been happening to him.

With a soft exhale Borch pulls the blanket over Hyacinth and puts a gentle hand on his shoulder.

“We can talk more later, bardling.”

With that, Hyacinth succumbs to sleep.

  
  


~

  
  


It’s late when he wakes again.

He lays still for some long moments.

Breathes in and breathes out, listens.

If he concentrates he hears faint voices downstairs.

Hyacinth contemplates just staying in bed if he is honest with himself.

Emotional exhaustion and tiredness tug at his bones and mind.

Who would care if he just goes to sleep again?

The grumbling of his stomach thwarted this thought process.

Reminding him he hasn’t eaten in nearly two days.

Considering this it doesn’t come as much of a surprise that he feels so weak.

With incredible effort he heaves himself up and sits at the edge of the bed.

For a moment the phantom sensation of a hand touching his wrist comes to him.

He touches the place where Borch has touched him, doesn’t think how much he missed the touch of other people.

Borch is _kind_ and he could sense how earnest he has been.

Hyacinth thinks that he maybe should be embarrassed at how he broke down in tears, clutching at the other man's clothes.

He isn’t though.

The _dragon_ is likely far far older than Jaskier and has most likely seen everything.

Crying messes of humans included.

With a huff Jaskier scoot to the end of the bed where he has spied his boots before.

They’re still there, luckily and he pulls them over.

He pushes himself to stand and wobbles a bit.

His stomach makes himself known again, a big and loud grumble coming from it.

Hyacinth then makes his slow way to the door and opens it.

The sounds he hears are clearer now, low voices and clinking cutlery.

Closing the door behind him, he follows the noises.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is a question in Hyacinth’s eyes, he wants to ask but Borch lifts a hand.
> 
> “You want to ask how it is that I am not included in the spell.”
> 
> A tentative nod.
> 
> Borch sighs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> new chapter! i needed a bit of a breather after uploading two chapters in the same day xD
> 
> anyway this is not beta read, if you find something that doesn't make sense please tell me <3
> 
> i hope you like the story so far! I've planned a lot of things that i still want to happend xD

When Hyacinth comes to the room the noises originate from, he’s greeted by a picture of domesticity. 

Borch and Saskia are eating by the kitchen table, while Saskia seems to animatedly tell a story, gesturing wildly with her hands to paint a picture.

Her father is attentively listening, offering questions and nodding in agreement.

He flicks a glance at Hyacinth and tilts his head slightly, he has the feeling that this has been an invitation

He doesn’t want to interrupt Saskia though and so he leans in the doorway waiting for her to finish.

Or, he wants to wait but his stomach doesn’t seem to agree with that, letting out a loud rumbling sound.

Hyacinth blushes a bright red.

Saskia stops in her story and whips her head around, when she sees him she brightens even more.

“Hyacinth! Hi!” She throws herself out her seat, only barely stopping before crashing into him.

She gently takes his hand and tugs him over to the table where there is already an empty plate.

Saskia scrambles back into her seat and leans forward, “Papa says you were very tired. Did you sleep good?” 

Hyacinth smiles at that, it’s impossible to be too sad with her smiling so wide.

“I slept very well, thank you for asking.” 

She somehow impossibly smiles even wider at that and then nods, apparently satisfied.

Borch gestures at the food before Hyacinth and says warmly, “Come and eat, you are probably hungry, are you not?”

Hyacinth looks at him with a bit of wide eyes and nods, “Thank you.”

He has forgotten how it is when someone cares for you, these last weeks having felt as long as months, with no one but himself for company.

Slowly he fills his plate with some of the food he thinks he might be able to stomach for now.

The food on the road was basically non-existent and heavily rationed so he wouldn’t die of hunger.

Though it seems that he would have woken up after dying anyway.

He’s so hungry but wills himself to eat slowly, chew long and thoroughly.

No need to give himself a stomach ache on top of everything else.

Seeing that he is eating, Saskia continues her story from before it seems.

She’s talking some miles a minute, seemingly even more excited than before, even standing on her chair to better illustrate her point.

Her story revolves around a huge bear and his friend the duck it seems.

Hyacinth hasn’t been there for the beginning of the story and doesn’t know how the full story goes.

From what he hears though it’s certainly interesting.

Saskia seems to have a knack for storytelling _and_ seems to also absolutely enjoy it.

Children and their boundless enthusiasm.

He’s never wanted actual children of his own but he adores them nonetheless.

She is still talking when he finishes eating, or rather when he can’t eat anymore.

There is still food on his plate but just looking at it starts to make him sick.

He gently pushes the plate away from and listens to Saskia telling what sounds like the last part of her story.

When she’s done she plops down back on her chair, making it creak and wobble.

She looks incredibly happy and also a little smug.

Borch is very openly telling her what he liked and what could use a bit of work and asking questions about the story.

Both talk for a bit more although one can see that Saskia is getting more and more tired by the minute.

She’s blinking more often and the occasional yawn seems to sneak in.

After a while Borch stands and scoops her up.

“I think it’s time to sleep, little hatchling.”

Saskia put on only a token protest, too tired to really fight against it, instead she just snuggles closer to her father’s chest.

He gives Hyacinth a soft look and a tiny incline of his head, before heading upstairs, presumably to her bedroom.

It takes a while for Borch to come down again, long enough that Hyacinth has started to doze off while sitting in his chair.

He startles into waking when Borch’s hand softly touches his wrist to try and get his attention.

When Hyacinth turns to look at him, Borch motions for him to follow.

Hyacinth rises with some difficulty, his joints stiff and movements groggy.

He follows Borch, who leads them to what seems to be the living room.

The only source of light is the fireplace to the side, the seating possibilities a couch and two armchairs.

Sitting down in one, Borch nods to the other, “Come sit with me.”

Slowly, Hyacinth makes his way over and sits down.

He feels so tired and only half comes from being physically tired.

“There are still things that you should know.” Borch starts.

Hyacinth nods and says awkwardly, “Yeah. I’m… sorry. About before.”

Borch shakes his head.

“You don’t need to be sorry about it, or embarrassed. The situation you have found yourself in is traumatic and it’s natural that you will have problems and that some things might not be as easy for you anymore.”

He is gentle as he says it, putting the facts on the table and doesn’t try to sugarcoat them.

That’s what he needs right now, he doesn’t want any illusions even if it hurts.

“You said, that… you don’t know who it is or was that, did _this_?” He questions.

Borch shakes his head, “I do not but from what magic I can feel on you I can narrow it down, at least.”

Hyacinth breathes in, breathes out.

“Tell me.”

“The Fae belongs to the Unseelie court, they have to be an Elder Fae as well. Only an Elder could be powerful enough for a spell that reaches this far and can make so many forget.”

There is a question in Hyacinth’s eyes, he wants to ask but Borch lifts a hand.

“You want to ask how it is that I am not included in the spell.”

A tentative nod.

Borch sighs.

“I am old, little bard, very old and not many are older than me. The Fae probably did not take in account that you would know someone like me.”

“There is also that dragons aren’t affected by many magical means.”

Hyacinth nods, it does make sense he supposes.

He wants to ask if there is a possibility to maybe be able to release the spell but stops himself when he sees the look on Borch’s face.

“What… ?”

Sighing again, Borch leans back and briefly closes his eyes. “There is another thing and it relates to how I can tell you what kind of Fae did this.”

That doesn’t bode well, swallowing hard, Hyacinth looks at his hands.

They’re shaking.

He clasps them together tight, holding on.

“Please. I need to know.” 

Borch nods, “My theory is that the Fae created a bond with you.”

“A… bond?” Hyacinth croaks out.

“Yes. A bond, I don’t know of what nature but it’s there.” He stops himself for a moment but then continues. “One can sense it around you but also see it, if they look hard enough.”

There is no answer from Hyacinth, he just continues to stare at his clasped hands.

Borch stands up and goes over to one of the cabinets, he rummages for a bit before coming back with a mirror which he presses into Hyacinth’s hand.

With trembling hands he turns it around and looks at himself.

At first there doesn’t seem to be any different but, he thinks of what Borch has said and looks harder and-

His eyes seem, bluer somehow, like ice.

Over the course of the last weeks he neglected his hair and it grew some inches.

Falling over his ears and eyes, but _curling_ at the edges, something it has never done before.

Swallowing he angles the mirror a bit lower and-

Softly he traces one of the many hole shaped scars on his throat and the area of his collarbone.

Tries not to remember the pain, and him drowning in his own blood.

His hands are shaking so badly now he nearly lets the mirror fall to the ground.

Gently, Borch takes it out of Hyacinth’s hands and puts it away.

Just as gently he holds his hand and continues, “There is more.”

Hyacinth shakes and his voice breaks, “ _More_?”

Borch takes his left hand and slowly rolls his shirt up to his elbow and traces something on his underarm.

When Hyacinth looks closer there in silvery-white seems to be a tattoo of sorts, flowers seemingly growing from his wrist.

Forget-me-not flowers.

Two of them to be exact.

“You’ve died twice, haven’t you?”

Tears start to fall from Hyacinth’s eyes and he nods.

“I’m sorry Hyacinth.” 

With that he gathers, the weeping man into his arms and lets him cry, once again.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It feels like a mockery, that the world does not change and simply is as it has been.
> 
> The sun shines through the windows, softening the edges of the room and making everything seem to be painted golden.
> 
> Hyacinth wants to hate it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey ho! haven't uploaded in a while but worry not i'm just a very slow writer AND have a lot or irl stress atm
> 
> that coupled with an event fic I had to write (set in this universe even but sometimes later (you can find it [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26594944))) this fic was a bit on the backburner
> 
> as a sidenote- I've marked this installment as complete for now because this chapter is a very good ending I think, although the next scenes we will visit will be shorty after this fic and i am yet undecided if I should fit this into here, or into another installement.
> 
> anyhow this fic will continue and I hope that y'all like it!
> 
> ♥

Hyacinth doesn’t know how he still has tears left in him.

It feels like he’s been crying for days and ages, his eyes hurt and his body shaking with silent sobs.

Borch is a steady and comforting presence, making him feel  _ safe _ .

After a long while his tears subside and his shaking ceases but he still holds onto Borch.

He fears he will just break apart if he lets go.

Borch makes no movement to dislodge him either and doesn’t let him go.

The gesture alone, makes a lump form in his throat.

He has missed contact with others  _ so much _ and knowing that someone is  _ there _ .

Slowly he inches back, glad that Borch seems to be able to read him well and starts to let go as well.

Borch stays still close though, and Hyacinth is so very grateful for the gesture and closeness that has been offered. 

“What does- what does that mean for me?” Hyacinth asks with a shaking voice.

He is still holding his arm with the forget-me-nots and Borch slowly reaches forward and runs a hand over it. 

He shakes his head, “I do not know but-” Borch  _ hesitates _ .

“But  _ what _ ?” Hyacinths grips his arm tighter, head bowed and shoulders shaking.

Gently, Borch pries Hyacinth’s fingers off and takes both his hands into his own.

“A bond like this, especially in such an intensity and with such effect, always goes two ways.”

Hyacinth audibly swallows and grips Borch’s hands like a lifeline, he can’t stop shaking even if he can’t bring himself to cry anymore. 

Borch continues, “A two way bond like this is a giving and a receiving, due to what we know, I can say that you are on the receiving end…” 

He trails off looking at the flowers blooming on the bard’s arm and the new scars decorating his throat.

“So it’s- it’s what? Taking something from me?” Hyacinth whispers brokenly.

Sighing, Borch says, “That is most likely.” He slowly pulls the shaking bard into his arms again.

Hyacinth goes with it, nearly boneless, voices quivering. “What- what could they be taking from me? And…  _ why _ .” 

Borch shakes his head, “I do not know Hyacinth, I truly don’t know.”

This seems to be the last straw for Hyacinth who at once lets out a wounded sound and breaks down in Borch’s arms.

Borch doesn’t let go of him even when he notices Hyacinth slipping into unconsciousness.

He sighs sadly, it can’t be easy to be in this situation and all the information revealed in such a short time seems to have been too much for him.

Carefully he heaves Hyacinth up and carries him into his room and into his bed.

For a while, Borch sits at the edge of the bed, thinking.

Hyacinth is peaceful now next to him, the evidence of his breakdown only in his red rimmed eyes and tear tracks down his face.

To be so young and so wounded, nobody deserves this fate.

With yet another sigh he stands up and leaves the room, tomorrow will be another day.

  
  


~

  
  


Hyacinth wakes up, sweaty and out of breath.

The nightmares have been his constant companion since The Incident, once he couldn’t shake.

On especially bad days he thinks that he deserves them.

He stays in bed, staring at the ceiling, the memory of the nightmares slowly fading away.

Instead of it, he slowly starts to remember the events that have happened yesterday.

His eyes start to burn again with tears and he has to close them, taking a deep breath.

The events, the things he found out and that Borch told him don’t feel real.

Everything doesn’t feel real, even his body seems to not be his own.

As if he’s watching through a lens at a distorted world.

When he thinks that no more tears are threatening to escape him, he opens his eyes again.

It feels like a mockery, that the world does not change and simply is as it has been.

The sun shines through the windows, softening the edges of the room and making everything seem to be painted golden.

Hyacinth wants to hate it.

He can’t.

The world is beautiful, despite whatever happened.

It might feel like a mockery now but he knows deep down that it isn’t.

That there is  _ hope _ in every new day.

He just has to grasp it and hold on,  _ needs _ to hold on or he will drown.

It’s hard though, so, so hard and he doesn’t know how he will manage it.

Slowly, he sits up on the bed and stretches, rubs the sleep crust from his eyes.

When Hyacinth lowers his hands again, his eyes fall to his forearm.

He rolls his sleeve up and softly traces over the silvery white Forget-me-not's edged into his skin.

It makes him feel dizzy and sick, that whoever that- that  _ Fae _ is, takes something from him.

What do they get from giving him this  _ curse _ of immortality, what could he  _ give _ that would interest them. 

It fucking terrifies him.

Do they take something that will replenish again or will he wake up one day, having lost himself.

How much can be taken of him until there is nothing left of him anymore?

Will he wake up one day and realize he can’t remember his life  _ before _ anymore?

Or will it chip away slowly, ever so slowly at the essence of himself until he realizes that he isn’t himself anymore?

Hyacinth balls his hands to fists and tries to stop himself from spiraling down again.

His nails dug into his palms, knuckles going white and a tremor running through his arms.

He breathes in and holds, holds, holds, and breathes out- then again.

He repeats the pattern for some time, gradually relaxing until he doesn’t feel like he will fall apart anymore.

On still slightly shaking legs he stands up and goes over to the window, opening it to get some fresh air.

Yesterday he didn’t get a chance to look out but it’s  _ beautiful _ .

The house stands atop a hill, if the gently sloping land around is any indication and just there in the distance he can see the sea.

He looks down when he hears the sound of Saskia’s laughter.

Next to her he spots Thistle, they’re in a large paddock and Saskia seems to play with the pinto.

A small smile forms on Hyacinth’s face as he watches them both having fun.

He takes one last breath and then rolls his sleeve back down.

If there is truly only a limited amount of time for him  _ as _ himself, he needs to make the most of it.

For now, he will join Saskia and Thistle- 

Who knows maybe Saskia would want to learn how to take care of her, if she doesn’t already know, that is.

He looks at his forearm again, then shakes his head and goes out.

Seize the day after all.


End file.
